


Yggdrasil Knows

by nimblermortal



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimblermortal/pseuds/nimblermortal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The queen of Hel is in love, and will do nothing about it. The rumors pass through Yggdrasil's branches, and Hel's lover's wife passes unharmed through her realm and dares to pose a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yggdrasil Knows

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bragi, God of Interior Decorating](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701093) by [palmtreelights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmtreelights/pseuds/palmtreelights). 



The lands of the dead are not silent.

No tree is ever silent, in whole or in part. The wind in the boughs rattles the leaves, the trunk slowly creaks as it sways; on a still day, if you sit quietly, you can hear the sap being pumped up, xylem and phloem flushing sugar water from the ground to the sunny twigtips. Just so Yggdrasil leaves murmurs in each of its branches and, to a still listener, the whispers travel from branch to branch. Listen, and you hear the rumors of Asgard, of Muspellheim, of the dead themselves. Listen:

The queen of Hel is in love.

Helheim has been singing this tune for centuries; not since it gained its queen, but since her father conspired to send her lover to her. It is impossible to be silent about this, and since the queen says nothing, makes no gesture, the living fiber of her realm betrays her with every creak.

The queen of Hel is in love.

It is inconceivable to the people of Helheim that Baldr could not know; and yet every shining gesture speaks of innocence. He speaks to Hel as to any lady, offers her his arm so, and seems not to notice the way she cleaves to him and follows his every touch, listens to him when no other is permitted the effrontery to advise her on matters of her own realm. But he makes no gesture of acknowledgment, and it must be assumed that there was some day, long ago, when the two of them agreed not to acknowledge it, to ignore, to hope it disappears, to sacrifice every moment to the crippling justice of fairness. To grant permissions no one would dream of asking for lest jealousy turn her away from the path of righteousness.

The queen of Hel is in love, and it is because of this that her lover’s wife may pass in and out of the land of the dead without fear. She may say whatever she wishes to Hel, and no wight will raise hand or will against her, for she has the forbearance of their queen.

What she chooses to say is: “You seriously need to rethink your drapes.”

“Your pardon?” the queen of Hel says, her voice the ice of the barrows.

“Your drapes. They’re far too heavy, they drag the whole room down. They make it look small and block most of the light.”

“That’s what drapes are for.”

Nanna tosses her head and gives Hel a look that says she does not even know where to begin in correcting her. “That’s really only the beginning. Is everything you own black? You need contrast. If not for style, at least consider your depth perception. Too much black and you can’t even see the shadows.”

“I rule the dead. You would prefer I decorate in pink?” Hel gives Nanna’s organza a scathing once-over.

“I would prefer you rule with style.” Nanna looks over the hall as if reimagining it, but her gaze stalls on her husband’s door. “Baldr would appreciate it.”

Hel’s breath catches, but Nanna is already warded against the cold of Helheim. “He told you so?”

“He doesn’t have to.” Nanna flicks a bit of paper over her shoulder. Hel snatches it from the air.

“What’s this?”

“A business card. You really are behind the times.” Nanna is leaving, she’s drifting airily out of Helheim, as no one else can: with Baldr’s eyes on her. “It’s Bragi’s card. He does everyone’s halls.”

Nanna is drifting, is drifting, is gone, has never done more than pass through Helheim, has never left her mark. Hel has built everything here, has won the loyalty of every soul. But Nanna has always been fashionable.

Hel can burn the card in a flash of her father’s fire, but the shape of it stays printed in her brain: of fine lettering, the chimerical pleasure of Baldr’s approval, of a high hall of color and wind where every curve reflects Hel’s being.

She knows she is going to call.

 


End file.
